"Where waiting?"
"One at each end of the street, sir."
"Thank you. You may bring us sherry and biscuit, Wotton."
"Thank you, sir."
The servant vanished.
Brentwick removed his glasses, rubbed them, and blinked thoughtfully at the girl. "My dear," he said suddenly, with a peculiar tremor in his voice, "you resemble your mother remarkably. Tut—I should know! Time was when I was one of her most ardent admirers."
"You—y-you knew my mother?" cried Dorothy, profoundly moved.
"Did I not know you at sight? My dear, you are your mother reincarnate, for the good of an unworthy world. She was a very beautiful woman, my dear."
Wotton entered with a silver serving tray, offering it in turn to Dorothy, Kirkwood and his employer. While he was present the three held silent—the girl trembling slightly, but with her face aglow; Kirkwood half stupefied between his ease from care and his growing astonishment, as Brentwick continued to reveal unexpected phases of his personality; Brentwick himself outwardly imperturbable and complacent, for all that his hand shook as he lifted his wine glass.
"You may go, Wotton—or, wait. Don't you feel the need of a breath of fresh air, Wotton?"